


Cold Hands, Warm Heart

by booksnchocolate



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Found Family, M/M, Multi, and they were roommates (oh my god they were roommates)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:42:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21988327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/booksnchocolate/pseuds/booksnchocolate
Summary: When Thomas and Minho's housemate moves out, they need to find a replacement ASAP. Newt shows up to fill the gap and, well. Oh my god, they were roommates.
Relationships: Harriet/Sonya | Elizabeth "Lizzy" (Maze Runner), Newt/Thomas (Maze Runner)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 104
Collections: Maze Runner Secret Santa 2019





	Cold Hands, Warm Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tori_Scribbles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tori_Scribbles/gifts).



> This is the TMR Secret Santa 2019 gift for the lovely Tori_Scribbles. Hope you like it!

It wasn’t that Thomas and Minho set out to forget Winston – it just happened. As the year rolled around and the lease on their 3-bedroom apartment came up for renewal, Winston put in his notice. It came as an unpleasant shock for the other two; housemate hunting was a nightmare at the best of times, and with barely a month to find a replacement, things didn’t look good. 

“I’m moving in with Jeff,” Winston said on the final day of his tenancy. At the blank looks on their faces, he clarified. “My boyfriend. Whom I’ve been dating for the past year.”

Thomas frowned, pausing Red Dead Redemption 2 just as his character got kicked by a horse. “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”

Winston glared at him as he dragged his last suitcase across the carpet. “You didn’t know I lived here for three months.”

That was fair; Thomas fell silent. Minho peered around the dividing wall of the kitchen. “You’ll still come hang out, though, right?”

Winston’s face softened at that. “Yeah, dude. You’re not completely rid of me.” And then he was gone and three became two.

If Thomas were the type to agonize over the nuances of social dynamics, he might have worried about how Winston’s departure would affect his and Minho’s relationship – but as it turned out, the change was hardly noticeable and apart from the six-pack of blueberry bagels left in the freezer, which neither of them were ever planning on eating, it was almost as if Winston had never really lived there in the first place.

Reality set in harshly when the next month rolled around and their rent came due, though.

“Fuck,” Thomas swore as he looked at his bank balance – or, rather, lack thereof. “Dude, we’ve got to get a third roommate. I’m gonna be living on ramen for the next five years.”

“I know,” Minho sighed, running his hands through already-disheveled hair. “I’ll ask around, see if anyone knows anyone who’s looking.”

Minho’s first suggestion was Gally, which Thomas vetoed almost before the name was out of his mouth. A few days later, he came back in with a grin on his face and the name  _ Newt _ . 

Thomas could only stare at him. “Who the fuck would name their kid that?”

Minho waved a hand dismissively. “It’s not, like, his  _ name  _ name. It’s a nickname, duh.” 

Thomas remained unconvinced. “He sounds like a total nerd.”

Minho snorted. “So he’ll fit right in, huh?”

“How do you even know this guy anyway?”

Minho’s eyes slid away at that and it came out that he knew Newt through Gally. This, predictably, garnered him no favour with Thomas because Gally Sucked. But the rent wouldn’t pay itself and the Craigslist ad they’d put up was only returning college freshmen and creepers and that was how Thomas found himself opening the front door one grey morning to the most stunning person he’d ever seen. 

“Hi,” said the stranger, huffing the word almost self-consciously. “Is this 39D? I thought I was in the right place, only the sign…”

He trailed off and gestured to the crude 6 plastered over the 3 in one of Thomas and Minho’s more drunken spurs of genius. 

“English! I mean, uh. You speak English. And you’re also…”  _ Exceedingly attractive. Totally bangable. So, so hot _ . 

“English?” the stranger supplied with a minute upwards curl of his lips. 

“Yes,” Thomas said gratefully. “That.” And then, as his brain finally caught up with his mouth: “I’m Thomas. By the way. Are you the new housemate? Frog?”

“Actually, it’s Newt,” said the stranger, dark eyes crinkling in a smile. “And yes, I’m the one Minho’s been speaking to. Do you mind if I…?” 

He trailed off in a question, gesturing to the ground beside him, and Thomas saw for the first time several large boxes stacked on the floor. “Oh, yeah, of course. Here, let me help you.” 

Working together, the two of them made quick work of Newt’s belongings. Although the boxes were heavy, he didn’t appear to have moved in with much. “Mostly clothes and books,” he said with a small self-deprecating shrug.

Thomas hoisted a tripod and heavy camera bag up in the air. “This doesn’t look like books.” 

“Oh, that.” Newt’s eyes shuttered. “An old hobby. Hung onto it for sentiment, I guess.” He took the tripod and leaned it up in the corner of his room, so that it was hidden by the open door. The camera bag was shoved underneath his desk.

“You’re a photographer?”

Again the small, demeaning shrug. “Not really. I used to do some work, but-” He cut himself off and changed tack on the sentence with an almost visible effort. “I guess I don’t really have much time for it now.”

“Okay,” Thomas said, and, “cool.” Something in the way Newt spoke, the slight hunching of his shoulders told him it would be best not to pry. “Well, here, lemme give you the grand tour.”

Thomas quickly showed him the layout of the apartment and went over the ground rules. “Minho and I work full-time so we’re out most days. Cooking is, uh, basically fend for yourself, but we’ll share some basic groceries like eggs, milk, flour, rice. We have a cleaning schedule,” he said virtuously and noted the approval in Newt’s eyes, “which we stick to weekly otherwise Minho can and will soak all our underwear and lock it in the freezer. Not that I speak from personal experience.”

“Not at all,” Newt murmured and his eyes crinkled with humour again. It was a good look on him, Thomas decided. Then again, taking in Newt’s honey-blond hair and elegant features, there probably wasn’t much that wouldn’t look good on him. Or off him – 

“Owfuck,” Thomas cursed as he stubbed his toe hard on the kitchen table leg. Behind him, he heard Newt’s ill-concealed huff of laughter. The pain grounded him and brought him back to reality.  _ Stop it _ , he told himself firmly,  _ no perving on the new housemate _ . 

They spent the rest of the day unpacking (well, Newt unpacked and Thomas lounged against various doorjambs, couches and bookshelves talking to him); when Minho came home, they went through introductions and ground rules again, and as they sat among the remains of New Guy Move-In Pizza Night chatting amicably, Thomas let himself think that maybe things were really going to work out. 

It was easy to live with Newt. He worked at a local tech start-up with flexible hours, which he called “a right pain in the arse but at least it pays the bills”. Their schedules frequently matched up so more often than not they all cooked together. 

“Oh my God,” Minho had said, staring at the heap of pasta the first time they’d made a group dinner and ended up with leftovers. “I’m so taking this for lunch. You guys, we’re fucking adults.”

“Jesus,” Thomas had agreed, “we made it.”

“Wow,” Newt had drawled with no small amount of sarcasm, “you guys set the bar really high, yeah?”

Thomas had chucked a cushion at him and they’d had their first – but not their last – pillow fight.

So yeah, living with Newt was easy. It became habit to see his tan sheepskin jacket hung up on the coat rack; his well-worn boots on the mat by the door. Over time, Thomas learned to hear his particular gait as he walked down the hall, limp making the pattern slightly off-kilter. He came to know the sleepy shuffling that preceded Newt’s entrance into the waking world, making a beeline for the kettle because even decades after leaving England, some things never changed. Days turned into weeks and Thomas found he was getting used to the warmth of Newt beside him on the couch during their video game marathons, used to the soft smiles and the crinkling of dark eyes at some secret humour that he had yet to know. Newt even started using his camera again, keeping it on his desk more often than not, and Thomas got used to the sporadic  _ snk  _ of the shutter of the old DSLR as Newt found some no-doubt artsy scene to capture in the dregs of the morning coffee. Newt never showed him the pictures and Thomas never asked, sensing some things in their new arrangement were best left private. Living with Newt was easy, and if Thomas had more than once burned himself on the stove because he’d been caught in the way the grey morning light illuminated Newt’s hair or highlighted his cheekbones, that was no one’s business but his own. 

Time passed and the wet, muddy days of spring rolled into the buzzing warmth of summer. Newt could often be found lounging on their small balcony in the evenings after work; it was a small wrought-iron thing, more a means of getting to the fire escape than anything else, and it overlooked an empty alleyway – hardly the most captivating scenery. But Newt didn’t seem to mind. 

“I like it,” he’d said to Thomas once when Thomas had commented on it. “It’s nice to be outside. Fresh air, and all that.” The last had been a half-hearted laugh.

“As fresh as it gets in the city, anyway,” Thomas had joked and Newt had laughed that laugh again, a soft huff of breath that lately had started capturing more and more of Thomas’ attention.

Thomas found him there one Friday after work, leaning against the iron railing. His back was to the apartment, and to Thomas; he hadn’t heard him come in. Toeing off his shoes silently, Thomas padded closer to the balcony door, where a light breeze wafted into the living space, carrying a hint of the day’s heat. The urge to speak, to announce his presence grew in him and then died; for a moment, Thomas simply stood leaning against the kitchen table, watching Newt. 

It had been a sweltering day, the sun beating oppressively down on the city and heat rising in shimmering waves from the tacky asphalt; but here, on the tiny balcony, the sun’s glare was mellowed, bright yellow light turning golden in the evening hours. Newt was wearing a thin white tank top in deference to the heat; Thomas could see the smooth curve of a shoulder, the pale jut of his shoulder blades like sharp wings. The light breeze ruffled Newt’s hair and the strands caught the sunlight, dark blonde streaked with gold. Thomas’ fingers twitched against his thighs. He moved forward and Newt turned as he did so.

“Oh, hey Tommy. Didn’t see you there.” Newt’s smile was sheepish and happy and it made something warm bloom in Thomas’ chest.

Thomas opened his mouth. Closed it. “I just got in,” he said lamely. “D’you want – a beer?” The words tumbled out of his mouth.

“Sure,” Newt said, shrugging one pale shoulder. The motion was somehow elegant and Thomas tore his gaze away as he realized he was staring. 

Beers in hand, he stepped out to join Newt on the balcony. It was just about big enough for two people to lean against the railing, elbows a handspan apart. The sunlight caught on the fine hair on Newt’s arms, a pale dusting of gold, oddly beautiful. Thomas took a long swig of his beer and let the sour, yeasty taste drown the fire of want suddenly kindling in his belly.  _ Shit _ . 

When he looked up, Newt’s eyes were on him, dark gaze heavy under the warm light of the sun. 

“Tommy,” he said, voice curling around the sound as if tasting it. “I’ve been thinking about taking up photography again.” There was a strange intensity to the words, as if they carried more than what they meant. 

Thomas gripped the neck of his beer tighter, fingers slipping in the perspiration on the bottle. 

“Yeah?” Thomas’s voice sounded strange to his own ears, husky and low. He couldn’t look away from Newt’s gaze, and the weight of it made him feel at once giant and small. His heart hammered in his chest. 

Newt licked his lips. Thomas tried not to stare. Newt had shifted closer, somehow – when? – and Thomas could almost feel his skin through the scant inches that separated them now. He could practically taste the sweat that beaded at the hollow of Newt’s throat. “I-” 

“Guys, I’m home!” Minho’s voice broke the spell and they jumped apart. Thomas gripped the railing to steady himself, grounding himself in the dig of iron into the palm of his hand. It was dizzying to look at Newt, haloed in the sunlight, so he concentrated fiercely on his beer, draining it in two long swallows.

A thumping set of footsteps announced Minho’s presence as he came to lean out the door. “Hey, what are you guys – is that my beer?”

In the pandemonium that followed – Thomas, bolting away from Minho’s wrath; Minho dashing after him with murder in his eyes (“You owe me a six-pack! And not PBR either!  _ Good  _ beer!”); and Newt killing himself on the sofa laughing – Thomas could almost forget the heavy look in Newt’s eyes, the feeling of being drawn to him like a lodestone to north. And when he woke up with a penis crudely drawn on his forehead in sharpie, well, the fallout of that moment with Newt took second place to the need to beat Minho in a prank war.

But after the Epic Prank War ended (read: Thomas setting Minho’s phone to play  _ Barbie Girl _ nonstop, which caused Minho to then replace all of Thomas’ food with Brussels sprouts, and culminating in Newt freezing all of their underwear until they agreed to a truce), there was still a strange tension between them. Newt had stopped hanging out in the communal spaces as much; he’d put his camera away and spent more time in his room. He rarely looked Thomas in the eye anymore; his gaze was a furtive, skittish thing. Thomas was hardly much better: any time he and Newt were alone in a room, the memory of the balcony would resurface – the phantom brush of their arms, the way Newt had licked his lips – and a nameless heat would suffuse him, rendering him unable to move or speak for fear of what he might say. Newt had started calling him Thomas again, and that hurt more than anything, the two syllables of his name imposing an unbridgeable gap where they’d once been close. 

It didn’t take long for Minho to twig to the awkwardness between them. He cornered Thomas one day, dark eyes serious and searching. “Hey man, is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Thomas said, looking up from his laptop in genuine surprise, “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I dunno. You and Newt seem to be avoiding each other.”

Thomas floundered in the expectant silence that followed. “Uh,” he said intelligently. “No? No, things are totally normal between us. Me and Newt. All good.” He laughed uncomfortably. “We’re bros.”

Minho was eyeing him skeptically. “Sure,” he said slowly. “Look, I don’t care what shit you have going on between you. I just wanna know I’m not going to have to be housemate-hunting at Christmas or something.”

This, at least, Thomas was certain of. Whatever strangeness was going on between him and Newt, he didn’t feel as if distance would solve it. If anything, he almost felt the opposite. “Don’t worry,” he said, “we’re good.”

“Cool,” Minho said gamely, “I trust you.”

Thomas felt a warm rush in his chest at his friend’s words. He opened his mouth to reply but Minho beat him to it. “So, anyway,” he said, “we should host Christmas.”

The conversation turned so fast it was almost like getting whiplash. “No,” Thomas said so fast he nearly broke the sound barrier. “No way. Nu-uh. Absolutely not.”

“Dude,” Minho spread his hands, “hear me out. It makes sense.” He began to tick points off on his fingers. “We’ve got the biggest space. We’re centrally located so it’s easy for people to get here. We’ve got the dopest fucking balcony,  _ and _ –” he paused triumphantly, “hosting means we’ll get all the leftovers.”

Thomas floundered in the wake of his friend’s irrefutable logic. “Why can’t Gally and Ben host it?”

“Hell no! They hosted last year and I had to  _ drag you _ there, and you spent an hour telling everyone you were leaving and then got so shitfaced you started trying to do karaoke.” 

Thomas winced at the recollection. “Oh yeah. I think I blocked that part out.”

Minho shuddered. “I  _ wish _ I could block it out!”

“Block what out?” Newt poked his head out of his bedroom to peer at them from down the hall. “What’s Thomas done now?”

“Who says it’s me?” Thomas demanded. His stomach clenched in dismay at the return to his full name. 

Newt leveled him with a stern look. “Because it’s always you.” 

Minho snorted. “Right,” he said, pushing himself off the sofa with a not-inconsiderable amount of reluctance, “that’s my cue to leave. I’m hitting the gym. Should I grab anything on my way back?”

“Think we’re good,” Thomas said, and Newt said, “Can’t think of anything.”

“Cool,” said Minho, “laters.” And then he was gone out the door. 

There was silence for a moment as Thomas looked forlornly at the spot where Minho had been sitting. Now that it was just him and Newt, the air seemed thicker somehow, laden with an unknown tension. At last he looked up and saw Newt still half out of his bedroom, dark eyes watching him. 

“Minho wants us to host Christmas,” he said, a desperate attempt to bridge the strange distance between them. 

Newt looked at him dubiously. ”You make that sound like a problem.”

“It’s not?” Thomas cleared his throat and tried again. “It’s not. It’s just gonna be a lot of people…” He trailed off, hesitant for reasons he couldn’t place.

Newt ducked his head at that, and through the fall of blonde hair, Thomas could almost see his cheeks lifted in a small smile. “I’m not some precious flower,” he said. “Don’t forget, I know Gally and Ben and Alby already. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“I’m not – ” Thomas started, then stopped. “Okay. Good. Fine. Great.” 

“But I was going to ask – is it cool if I invite my sister?”

“Yeah, definitely!” Thomas said, and then his brain caught up with the conversation. He strode over to the hallway so he could lean against the wall, facing Newt; each step felt awkward and heavy, as if he was encroaching on some unseen barrier. “I didn’t know you had a sister.”

Newt laughed softly and some of the tension between them dissipated. Thomas drew a quiet breath. “Well, you didn’t know Winston lived here for three months, so I think that says more than enough about your observational skills, actually.”

Thomas made a face but Newt ignored him, gaze growing distant again. “She lives upstate. We don’t get to see each other much.” He looked for a moment as if he would continue but the silence stretched and it seemed that that was all he would say on the subject. 

“We’ll definitely have room for her,” Thomas tried to joke but it fell flat even to his own ears. “Sorry, nevermind –”

“No, it’s okay,” Newt’s voice was quiet when he spoke again. “Thanks, Thomas.”

There it was again, the slightest catch, the barest hesitation before his name. It rankled Thomas in a way he couldn’t explain, like a discordant note in a simple melody. “You can use the nickname, you know. I don’t mind.”

“Don’t you.” Flat-voiced.

Thomas gritted his teeth. Trust Newt to make this feel like drawing blood from a stone. From his vantage point, he could just see over Newt’s shoulder into the far corner of his room. The blinds were drawn against the darkness outside but the desk light was on, and next to it, a sketchbook and some pens. The camera was nowhere in sight. “It’s nice to have a nickname,” he said to the empty space where the camera used to be. The words came slowly like a forced admission or a burgeoning realization. “Everyone else makes it sound juvenile or stupid. But I don’t mind when you call me Tommy.”

He met Newt’s gaze in time to see his housemate smile, the slow unfurling of happiness like the sail of a boat or a bird taking flight. “Alright, Tommy.”

Things improved between them after that. Newt started calling him Tommy again, which, to Thomas, signified all was right with the world. The camera reappeared and more than once Thomas would turn at the sound of the shutter to see Newt hastily pointing the camera at some innocuous object, like the cactus Winston had accidentally left on their windowsill and had never come back for. As the weather got colder and the first snows began to turn the sidewalks to ice rinks, Thomas felt a warmth suffuse his chest as he stamped his snowy boots on the doormat. Taking in the apartment, brightly lit and cozy, with Newt’s coat by the door and Minho’s passionate but off-key singing coming from the kitchen, he smiled. It was good to be home. 

Minho hit a particularly jarring high note and Thomas winced. Well, it was mostly good to be home. 

December came and Minho replaced his Top 100 pop songs with Christmas carols. Thomas and Newt shared commiserating looks whenever they woke up to the warbled strains of  _ Silent Night _ and  _ Deck the Halls _ . 

“Is it always like this?” Newt asked Thomas in a whisper one Saturday morning when Minho press-ganged them both into helping with the decorations. 

“No,” Thomas said, stringing up tinsel on top of the TV. “Sometimes it’s worse.”

They both succumbed to laughter. 

Through various schemes of bribery, bodily threats and blackmail, the apartment was decorated well in time for the Christmas party. 

“Wow,” Newt said, taking in the masses of wreaths, bows, garlands, tinsel and Christmas lights that covered every wall, “d’you think we have enough decorations?”

Minho elbowed him. “Asshole,” he said, laughing. “I can’t believe we did this in time.”

“Well, we wouldn’t have done it, but  _ someone _ is a  _ terrible friend _ ,” Thomas groused from the corner, “and blackmailed me –” 

“Uh, you pronounced ‘amazing’ wrong –”

“And blackmailed me into stringing up all the tinsel. I was picking glitter out of my hair for weeks! Weeks!”

“I wouldn’t have had to blackmail you,” Minho said in the eminently reasonable tone of someone who’d had this argument every year for the past five, “if you’d just done it any one of the first five times I asked. Besides, it’s not like everyone doesn’t already know about the time you –”

“We. Don’t. Talk. About it.” Thomas gritted out, murder in his eyes and tinsel in his hair. Minho looked at him, gauged his chances, and wisely decided to stay silent. 

The day of the party dawned bright and clear and  _ loud _ . By the time Thomas struggled out of bed,  _ Carol of the Bells _ was blasting from the speakers and Minho was making enough noise in the kitchen to provoke noise complaints from the next building. 

“Dude!” Thomas had to yell to be heard over the music and Minho’s thorough and methodical destruction of the kitchen. “What are you doing?”

Minho whirled around, clutching a Bundt pan in one hand and a bread knife in the other. “Organizing!” There was a slightly manic gleam in his eyes. “I’ve got to move some things from the top cupboards so we can put the lights on them.”

Thomas groaned. “We’ve been over this. You’re only allowed one set of Christmas lights in the kitchen.” 

Minho raised an eyebrow in a passable imitation of Newt. “I only have one set,” he said, unspooling the offending article. 

Thomas gaped. “That’s ten meters long! Our entire apartment is smaller than that!”

“C’mon,” Minho said as he began to string them up, “what’s the worst that could happen?”

“I hate you,” Thomas said, five minutes later as he tried to reset the fuses Minho had blown. “I hate you and I hate Christmas and I hate these fucking lights.”

“It’s fine,” Minho said, not looking up from where he was texting on his phone, “I’ll just tell Fry to bring his portable generator.” 

“Bloody hell,” Newt mumbled as he trudged into the kitchen a few minutes later. “Did we get attacked by elves? Why does our kitchen look like a gay discotheque?”

“Blame Minho,” Thomas said, just as Minho protested, “It’s festive!”

As the day went on, Thomas found himself increasingly looking forward to the evening and the arrival of their friends. Some, like Alby, lived in town and came over regularly; but others were either in different cities or traveling for work most of the year, like Clint, who was coming down from up north where he’d been buried under his courseload at med school. Minho had set him and Newt to decorating the Christmas tree while he hung the wreath on the front door, and Thomas was glad of the chance to spend time with Newt one-on-one. The nervous flutter in his chest had absolutely nothing to do with it. 

They worked in companionable silence for a while, and if their fingers brushed when Newt handed him an ornament, Thomas did his best to hide the slight hitch in his breathing. The world narrowed to Newt beside him, hanging the delicate red and silver baubles and humming softly under his breath as he worked. 

“We’ll save the star for Chuck,” Thomas said as they reached the last decoration in the box. The star was old and cheaply made; the flecks of glitter were peeling in several places and it was squashed on one side, the legacy of Chuck accidentally stepping on it. 

“One of your friends?” Newt asked with a sidelong glance. 

Thinking of Chuck’s unbeatable cheerfulness, Thomas grinned. “He’s kind of like the little brother I never had.”

Newt’s eyes softened. “It must be nice to see all your friends again.” 

“Yeah,” Thomas said fondly, and then, “hey, they’ll be your friends too.”

Newt smiled at that, a small sweet thing. Thomas’s heart turned over in his chest. A surge of recklessness took him and he spoke. “Newt, I –”

The doorbell rang. Minho poked his head out from the hallway and all three of them looked at each other. 

“Already?” Thomas mouthed at his friends. It was only quarter past five.

Minho raised his hands. “Don’t look at me,” he said, “I’m not even in my Christmas sweater yet!”

“It’s not my sister,” Newt said, “she’s still on the road.” The doorbell sounded again. 

Thomas pulled it open, half-expecting a wayward salesperson, or worse, the landlord. “Frypan?” he said incredulously, “Not that it’s not great to see you, but why didn’t you tell us you were coming early?” 

“Hi,” Frypan said in his no-nonsense way, lugging a huge pile of containers and boxes into the apartment. “I have to finish prepping this food for forty people. I’m taking over your kitchen.”

“Okay,” Thomas said, jogging to keep up with him, “let me just warn you about –”

“Oh my God,” Frypan said, stopping dead in the doorway. “What… happened… to the kitchen?”

Thomas rubbed the back of his neck. “Minho happened.”

From the living room, Minho called out, voice slightly muffled by the Christmas sweater he was struggling into, “It’s  _ festive! _ ”

Frypan snorted. “It’s a fire hazard, is what it is.” He started to set out his boxes and rummage through their cupboards for spices, which Thomas took as his cue to leave the kitchen in more capable hands.

Delicious smells started to waft through the apartment not long after; and Frypan even started singing along to the Christmas carols coming through the speakers. Other people were quick to arrive after that. Gally and Ben showed up together, and Newt greeted them warmly while Thomas stuck out his tongue at Gally from the corner. Winston came next, to a flurry of greetings from Thomas and Minho, and Minho’s relieved sigh of “you can finally take your bagels back!”. With him came his boyfriend, Jeff, and introductions were made all around before the next arrival, Zart, with a heavy bottle of some strange dark liquid that Thomas wasn’t sure was actually legal. 

“What, this?” Zart said, hefting the bottle by the neck. “It’s my homebrew. Made it in my bathtub. What?” he asked at the skeptical looks on their faces, “it’s healthy! There’s pineapple in it!”

Newt shot Thomas an incredulous look as Zart went to greet Frypan in the kitchen. “Your friends are definitely pioneers of innovation,” he murmured. Thomas laughed and nudged him with his shoulder. 

It was nice to have the others here even at the cost of any shared moments with Newt. Delicious smells of cloves and spice filled the warm air and mingled with the Christmas carols floating through the living room, creating a festive atmosphere. Another knock at the door heralded Brenda, and she burst into the apartment in a flurry of shouts and laughter. 

"Wow, the apartment looks great!" she said, smiling, as she entered the kitchen to drop off the several bottles of wine she’d brought with her. "Your kitchen looks so festive!"

Minho grinned manically and fist-pumped.

The next person to arrive was a slim blonde woman, several years younger than Thomas. He stepped back in confusion, but then she spoke.

"Is Newt here?" Her voice was soft, with a familiar English accent curling around the words and Thomas was all but shoved aside as Newt pressed through to the doorway with a jubilant cry.

"Sonya!" He turned, smiling, to Thomas, his arm wrapped around the woman's shoulders. "This is my sister."

Seeing them together, it was impossible not to see the resemblance in their shared fine features, the delicate bow of their lips, the fair hair.

Introductions were made as Sonya was ushered into the apartment and everyone crowded around to meet her and the tall dark-skinned woman next to her - "Harriet, my girlfriend." The introduction was slightly hesitant, but there was defiance in the sharp tilt of her chin and in the gleam in her dark eyes. Beside her, Harriet squared her shoulders as if daring anyone to argue. 

They needn't have worried. The rest of the gang welcomed them with open arms and soon they were in the thick of the conversation, chatting animatedly to the dozen or so people clustered around the couch as Frypan put the finishing touches on the food. Drinks were opened and eggnog was poured and the Christmas carols got drowned out by shouts of laughter. 

Chuck and Teresa arrived to a chorus of welcomes and were quickly ushered into the thick of things. Frypan came out from the kitchen with a triumphant “Food’s ready!” and there was silence for a few short moments as everyone dug into the feast. Frypan looked around cheerfully and with no small amount of satisfaction. “When no-one’s speaking, you know it’s good!”

The festivities carried on; Thomas got so caught up in catching up with Teresa that he didn’t notice Newt had slipped away until he looked up and realized the familiar head of blonde hair was nowhere to be found. 

“Hang on,” he said to Teresa, pushing back his chair, “I’ll be back.”

Teresa smiled as if he’d let her in on a great joke. She raised her wine glass. “Go get him, loverboy.”

“What,” said Thomas, and “that’s not -” but Teresa only smirked at him. He stuck his tongue out at her as he walked away and her laughter followed him to the hall. 

It was quieter in the short hallway, a few feet away from the cluster of people in the living room. Newt’s door was slightly ajar. Thomas padded over on stockinged feet. Through the open door, he could see Newt, lit by the warm light from the hall. Newt’s back was to him and he was standing at his desk, turning an object in his hands: his camera. From his vantage point, Thomas couldn’t see his expression but there was a determined set to his shoulders. 

“You gonna bring that out?” Thomas worked to keep his voice level as he leaned as casually as he could against the door frame. Newt spun around, clutching the camera close. His expression cleared when he saw Thomas, tense frown dissipating. His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment before he spoke. 

“Yeah,” he said quietly. There was a rough edge to his voice. For a moment, they stood watching each other in silence. Newt’s dark eyes searched his face and Thomas was abruptly reminded of their time on the balcony: the way the sun had kissed Newt’s skin, the sweat that had glistened on his neck, the pale line of his shoulders. The same simmering tension bloomed between them now, filling the air in Newt’s room. Thomas took a step forward. 

“It’s good that you’ve gotten back into it,” he said, slowly and a little awkward, gesturing to the camera. 

Newt looked down at it. “I - thanks.” 

Thomas cleared his throat. “What kept you from it all those years?”

It took Newt a moment to respond. When he spoke, his voice was soft, remembering. “I couldn’t find anything worth preserving,” he said slowly. “It was like the light had gone out of everything. I didn’t want to remember any of it.”

“And now?” The words were pulled from Thomas, unbidden. His voice was low but his heart beat in his chest like a hurricane.

Newt looked at him with a helpless, almost pleading expression. “I think I’ve found something worth holding on to.”

“Yeah?” Thomas said quietly, taking another step forward as if pulled towards Newt by some inexorable force; only a few inches of space remained between them.

“Yeah,” Newt breathed, and he was still holding the camera but one hand came up to rest on Thomas’ elbow. The contact was a burning heat, radiating up Thomas’ arm, through his body, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Newt’s gaze. Newt’s hand skated down his forearm. Their fingers tangled together. Thomas swore he could feel every dip and whorl of Newt’s fingertips, every inch of his skin from the dry skin of his knuckles to the rough calluses on his palms. His heart thundered in his chest; he wondered if Newt could hear it.

“I like you, Tommy.” Newt’s eyes were bright and determined. “I’m going to -”

“Yes,” Thomas said, “absolutely”, and brought their mouths together. The first kiss was graceless for all its excitement, noses bumping and teeth clashing. The camera dug uncomfortably into Thomas’ stomach where it was caught between them. Newt pulled back and Thomas’s heart dropped until he saw that he was smiling.

“Wait,” said Newt, “I want to do this right.” He placed the camera gently on the desk and turned back to Thomas, face shining with a giddy smile. Thomas felt his own face heat from the same joy and kissed him again, smoother than the first, drowning in the warmth and taste of him. It felt like coming home. 

He didn’t know how long they stood in their embrace, but when they pulled back, Newt’s face was flushed and his eyes were shining. “I think,” he said, touching his fingers to kiss-swollen lips, “we should maybe go join the others.”

“Oh, yeah,” Thomas said, like he hadn’t just forgotten about the Christmas party in their own apartment. He linked their fingers together without thinking, only stopping when he heard Newt’s “Wait.” Newt reached back and grabbed the camera from the desk, slinging the strap over his shoulder. 

“Okay,” he said, “let’s go face the music.”

They reentered the living room to a chorus of hoots and wolf-whistles. Minho and Alby exchanged money not-so-subtly in one corner. Chuck looked from Thomas to Newt and then at their clasped hands, beaming with joy. “Wow, it’s a Christmas miracle!” 

Even Thomas couldn’t keep from facepalming at that. “Hey,” he said looking up, a devious glint in his eye, “you know what this means?”

Newt shot him a quizzical glance. “What?”

Thomas grinned. “We can share a bedroom!”

From the corner, Minho groaned and flicked a chip at him. “Hell no!” he said, though he was smiling. “That means we’ll have to find a new roommate! Again!”

_The End_.

**Author's Note:**

> A short video clip found on Newt's camera roll:


End file.
